When I was in second grade, I was pretty good at soccer. But today I learned the hard way that there’s a pretty big difference between being eight years old and being 35.

I went to the local elementary school to spend some time with the second-grade boy I’m mentoring. We went outside to kick a soccer ball around. He’s really into soccer, and you can tell just by looking at him. He’s got that soccer player look.

So we’re outside with a bunch of other kids, and someone kicks the ball way up in the air. I started running toward it, and everything seemed to go into slow motion like in a movie. I judged the arc of the ball and ran full speed toward it, excitedly preparing to give it a good whack with my head. I even snatched off my hat with my hand in one smooth motion so I’d have nice clean contact. As I was about to reach it, the thought crossed my mind that I hadn’t hit a soccer ball with my head since Ronald Reagan was President. I think it dimmed my confidence.

Just as I was about to make a beautiful play, someone punched me in the eye. At least I’m convinced that’s what happened. It couldn’t have been the ball, ’cause I had a good bead on it. Anyhow, the ball bounced away as about two dozen little kids looked at me in disbelief and said, “Did you just hit that ball with your eye?” and, “Didn’t that hurt?” I tried to play it cool, but that’s hard to do when half your face is numb and you can only see out of one eye.

Guess I’ll just go watch the World Cup (with my one good eye) and leave the hitting-the-ball-with-your-head thing to the pros. And the second-graders.